Page 21 of After Hours at Dooryard Books
“Oh no,” Gary says. “You need the dust. Makes people feel like they’re getting a bargain.” He turns to Patrick and takes a book out of what looks like an old pillowcase. “You’ll want this. First edition, perfect copy, inscribed.” It’s Steinbeck’sTortilla Flat. And it really is perfect—there isn’t a mark on it, no bumped corners, binding tight, not a single tear in the jacket. It looks like it’s been on someone’s shelf in an air conditioned room for the past thirty years.
“It’s a beauty.” He and Gary proceed to haggle, a well worn patter that they’ve been through a dozen times and could both probably predict the outcome down to the decimal point. As soon as Patrick writes the check, Gary moves the books onto Patrick’s desk. “Nathaniel, take a look at this,” Patrick says, holding out the Steinbeck.
“Where’s Edna?” Gary demands. He’s one of maybe three people Patrick’s ever heard call Mrs. Kaplan by her first name.
“Florida. Her sister got her gallbladder out.”
“Sylvia’s all right, isn’t she?”
As far as Patrick knows, Gary never met Mrs. Kaplan’s family, but everyone who’s spent time with her gets to know about the members of her family like they’re characters in a soap opera. There’s Sylvia in Florida, a pair of sisters-in-law in Brooklyn, a ne’er-do-well brother who ran away fifty years ago, and about twenty great nieces and nephews who Patrick could identify on sight thanks to all the photographs he’s seen over the years. Even now, Patrick’s hoping that Ezra makes first chair in the state orchestra and Sarah gets into Brandeis.
“She’s on the mend,” Patrick says. “How’ve you been?”
“Can’t complain.” Gary unbuttons his coat and shifts his weight. He looks like he could do with a place to sit and a hot meal, or at least something to drink, but they used up the last of the tea bags that morning and Gary doesn’t drink coffee. “Spent the winter in Baltimore, then drove up through Pennsylvania and hit some book sales in New Jersey. Found that Steinbeck in a barn in Tom’s River. Paid seventy-five cents for it.”
“Where are you heading next?”
“Finger Lakes, then maybe Maine for the summer.”
Patrick wishes him well, then watches as Gary leaves, his knapsack still slung over his shoulder, but fifty dollars richer.
“Does he have a place to stay?” Nathaniel asks.
“He doesn’t stay in one place too long,” Patrick says.
“A drifter, then.”
“Nathaniel.You’rea drifter.”
“Hardly. I,” Nathaniel says, “am a mental case.”
Patrick snorts. “Point taken.”
“I haven’t drifted a day in my life.”
Nathaniel gestures at himself with an ironic little flourish and Patrick arrests the motion, taking hold of his wrist. He taps Nathaniel’s watch. “I’m no expert on watches, but I bet this is pretty nice. A gift?”
“I bought it for myself.” Nathaniel doesn’t make any move to take his hand back, and Patrick doesn’t drop it, just shifts his grip so he’s more or less holding Nathaniel’s hand. Nathaniel still doesn’t pull away.
“Bet you had a job with a pension. Bet you have a set of golf clubs somewhere.”
“You’re right about the pension,” Nathaniel says. “Wrong about the golf clubs. But I do have a tennis racket.”
Patrick notes the present tense, like that tennis racket is sitting somewhere right now, ready for Nathaniel to come get it. He probably has a whole life waiting for him, no matter what went wrong for him last winter.
Patrick squeezes Nathaniel’s hand and lets it go.
* * *
“You can have your chair back after you’ve gone to the laundromat,” Nathaniel says. He has his feet up on Patrick’s desk, Eleanor asleep on his chest,Leaves of Grassopen in one hand. “I had to wear my least favorite one of your shirts.” He’s wearing a pair of worn-out jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. “I don’t look reputable at all,” he complains.
“What a princess,” Patrick mutters, and Nathaniel looks up at him, his expression torn between amusement and outrage.“Want to come with me? Susan will watch Eleanor and the shop if I do her laundry.”
“Of course I don’t want to,” Nathaniel says. “But I should.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“That doesn’t stop it from being true. I want to find out where the limits are.”
